


Tomorrow Never Knows

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: I made them fucking IMMORTAL, I really think this is a metaphor for the fandom, Immortality, Other, another one of these lmao, oh no I'm at it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: FUCKING IMMORTALSAlso this is partly inspired by a post that I don't remember the origin for but it's about John Lennon throwing something through your window and saying 'I'm not dead.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't be doing this instead of sleeping....  
> [edit]  
> Also, Hazel is basically me. A few things have been changed, like my name, and a few other minor details.

I was dissociating but not high. Loudly playing a Kinks LP and drawing a picture of some random person that was definitely not me, because this person was not who I’d want to be. I draw myself as a perfect me particularly when I’m dissociating. My window was open letting the cold night breeze blow in. I knew I should go to sleep, but the allure of not doing so and the headache that came from dissociating was too much for me. I picked up the Abbey Road mug on my table, expecting to take a sip of now cold tea, but I had finished the mug some time before. I instead took a sip of the dusty water that had been sitting for a while in the table, and its musty taste brought a sense of nostalgia to me from previous times I’d dissociated. I could hear gravel crunching, like someone was coming down the driveway. But maybe I was hearing things, or just the quality of the record. I did buy it second hand, of course. A little paper aeroplane floated in onto my table, from under the lacy sheer curtain. I looked at it for a moment, and unravelled it to see if anything was inside. Sure enough, a scrawled handwriting that I somehow recognised wrote this.  
‘Maybe you’d believe me if you tried…’  
That too was familiar. I got up, switched off the turntable, and looked outside. I saw a figure wearing a big, coal-coloured coat and had a dark mop of hair on top of his head. Before I called out to them, I decided to check my parents weren’t around. They often disappeared overnight and returned in the morning to scream at me some more.  
‘Excuse me, but is this yours?’ I said, hanging partially out of the window. The person turned around but I could not see his face, it was too dark in the sodium streetlight and I wasn’t wearing my glasses.  
‘Yes.’ he said blankly. ‘Is it OK if I come in?’ he asked politely. I had a suspicion about his voice. It sounded well-travelled, but it had a base that I had heard many times before. I couldn’t recognise whose it was, but I knew it and something inside me was saying this was part of my illusions and maladaptive daydreams.  
‘Yes. Be silent, the front door’s unlocked.’ I told him. I packed away my vinyl and began to pack up my drawing equipment as there was a knock on my door. ‘You can come in!’ I said in a low voice. The door opened to a face I definitely knew. Everything clicked like it should have, the voice, the handwriting. It was John Lennon, a person who had been dead for thirty-six years and a bit, and even if he was alive he would be in his seventies, not looking like he did back in 1966. I knew I wasn’t hallucinating this, but I still stepped back.  
‘I’m not that surprised you’re in disbelief, really. I didn’t believe it myself.’ he smiled. ‘I presume you know who I am, so would you be so nice as to introduce yourself?’ he said politely, eyeing my vinyl collection. He pulled out my copy of Double Fantasy and read the back.  
‘I- I’m Hazel. Hazel Forrester.’ I said.  
‘It’s very nice to meet you, Hazel.’ John said, pulling off his massive coat. Doing this revealed a leather jacket harkening back to his teddy boy days, and a belt full of all sorts of gadgets, gizmos and non-lethal weapons, extra pouches and what looked to be a keychain from Berlin filled with all sorts of keys. His drainpipes revealed he hadn’t the weight of the ’66 John but he still had the cut, the nose and the face of the John I’d seen in photographs, but with that angelic aura of a god. The bare lightbulb of a ceiling light shone through his hair, highlighting it with dark red. I nearly mentioned it, but didn’t.  
‘Is it OK if I ask why you’re here?’ I questioned.  
‘Why I’m here, here, or how am I alive to be here right now?’ he clarified.  
‘Both.’ I said after a short pause to think.  
‘Sit down, it’s quite a long story…’

John was beginning to regret his past. Maybe it was him being crazy again, or he was longing for Paul. Why had he left him and broken up the band? Maybe it was too late now. He looked at the calendar, and wondered if he’d be able to sneak a trip back to Britain before Christmas. He should, it was only the eighth of December.  
BANG!  
That was all he could remember, alongside a searing pain. He sat up, and looked around him. Where were his glasses? He could see blue lights, and he was freezing cold. Where were his clothes? He had but a sheet. There was a nasty, disgusting smell coming from all around him. Rotting, mouldy and dead. John reached up to the spot on his head with a dull pain, and saw a half extracted bullet poking out. Was he in hospital after he’d been shot? Yes, that must be it. He pulled it the rest of the way out. It must have been something pretty big to leave him of all people on an operating table with a half extracted bullet poking out of his head! But he wasn’t on an operating table. They weren’t cold metal slabs. John sat up in a bolt, and began worrying. He couldn’t see right, and he was confused about what just happened. Wrapping himself up decently in the sheet, he began wandering the silent midnight corridors. The bullet wound stung like crazy, fire burning within it. Instinctively, he reached up to touch it but could not find where the wound had been. What the hell was happening? Running into things, he found a pair of glasses on a table. The only thing they could really do was help, right? Slipping them on, he found that they weren’t quite his prescription but a slight blur couldn’t harm him, right? The room he was in must have been the prep area, where he found a mirror. Thinking himself vain, John looked upon himself. He did a double take, and saw himself but from nearly fifteen years before. That couldn’t be right. The calendar with all sorts of events scribbled on the notes part of it as it was a flip-down date-by-date calendar read it was the tenth of December 1980. Maybe he had time to go back to Paul. He didn’t know if he should be spotted by the nurse on duty, as to not spook her. She was watching a small TV in her little office, and munching on some form of food. The TV had been tuned to a news station, and it was commercials. Maybe if he waited for a moment he wouldn’t have to ask about what had happened the day before. But instead it was expositional and jarring, yet something he seemed to have wondered in a small corner of his insane mind.  
John Lennon was dead. He was dead. But how could he be? He was standing there, breathing, he could feel his nervous pulse, and he was thinking! How could this have happened? He snuck past the nurse’s office as she bent down below the level of the windows to grab something, and he ran into a room marked ‘Patient’s Belongings’, in which he found lockers named everything from Aaronson to Zubon. He smiled a little at that because Zubon was Japanese for trousers. At least that cleared his mind a little bit. John found his own name, but knew he couldn’t take his things. Someone would know about that. Strangely, inside he couldn’t find his glasses. But instead he found his keys. That would be good enough, right? Maybe some of his cash, because it wasn’t stealing if it was from yourself, right?  
He got himself some of his money from home, in the place only he knew. He was beginning to distrust Yoko once again, and had hidden some money away just in case. He got all of it out, and put it in his new wallet. He’d temporarily stolen a shirt and trousers from a locker, and had bought himself a set of jeans and other articles of clothing. He felt scared and confused still, and decided that maybe he was going to find out about this non-death. As soon as he got a pair of glasses, preferably round.  
From reading and travelling through the world unnoticed, John had soon discovered what had happened all those years ago. He wasn’t the first and certainly wasn’t going to be the last. Genius always found a way to survive, with the myths of extraordinary longevity being from this. He was the second in a new line of geniuses for some plan that had vanished from records many years ago, leaving nothing, not even a name.  
~To Be Continued~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the people on Tumblr for suggesting usernames for George!


End file.
